


Rising Action

by damalur



Series: Conceits [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Herbal Soothers, Humor, Misunderstandings, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2731196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a writer has to throw artistic integrity out the window and give the audience what they really want: a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising Action

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for non-consensual conversations, borderline crack, and deeply self-indulgent claptrap. (Does anyone else feel an unhealthy nostalgia for Kirkwall?)

The fire was low in the grate by the time they finally exhausted themselves, and soon Varric got to add yet another entry to his list of the day's new discoveries: sleeping with Hawke was like sleeping with a tangle of rashvine. Her face was planted in the crook of his neck and her arms were bent underneath her, but it felt like she'd managed to acquire about eight extra legs that all had ice blocks at their terminal ends. She was also snoring, very lightly, right in his ear.

Shit. He was so damn happy he could float right out the window. Even her snoring came across as charming, which was probably a symptom of how far gone he was.

Despite that, he couldn't sleep. He kept staring at the ceiling as he ran a hand through her thick, silky crop of hair and thought about what she'd said. And what she hadn't said, too; he figured that what he'd gotten out of Hawke tonight about her emotional state was about as much as he was ever going to get out of her. Varric was closer to Hawke than anyone, although Aveline and the Rivaini and her elf and probably Carver dogged at his heels, but he hadn't seen that much anguish out of her except in the short days after her mother's death, and even those had been filtered through a lot of alcohol.

She'd tried to cover it up with flippancy and brass, the way she always did, but Varric had gotten a couple of things out of her before he'd showed his own hand. The first was that she was completely crazy for him, which would be pretty damn hard to believe if the evidence weren't sawing away on his shoulder. The second was that she'd clearly been holding on to her feelings for a long time, long enough that he should have known. Maker, he was a moron.

Metaphorically speaking, he'd been through the gauntlet more than a few times himself. His parents—ah, the less said there, the better. Brevity was the soul of wit, after all. Watching Bianca walk away from him over and over had been—well, that book was closed now. And Bartrand—suffice to say that was another story with an unhappy ending. Seeing Kirkwall burn hadn't been an anomaly so much as the last in a long line of shit.

He still wasn't sure anything had ever hurt as much as having Hawke tell him she wouldn't let being in love with him _change_ anything, though. She hadn't been watery and self-sacrificing about it, either—when was Hawke ever? Self-sacrificing, sure, but so subtly no one would ever notice, and Hawke had never gone meekly teary-eyed in her life. No, she'd almost been laughing, as if it were a foregone conclusion that her feelings didn't matter in the least.

Somewhere along the way, Varric had screwed up.

It wasn't like he blamed himself for being unable to read her mind—maybe a little for not noticing the huge thing she was hiding from him, but she'd chosen to hide it of her own free will, and had, by all accounts, not only made an effort to grow past her feelings but had never entertained the thought that anything might come of those feelings at all. 

The problem was that for all those years, Varric had treated her as an intimate. Not a substitute Bianca, because Hawke was only ever solidly herself, but as...yeah, all right: almost as a spouse. They'd monopolized each other, and he'd dragged her into as much crap as she'd dragged him into, from the expedition to the Deep Roads to family business that had never made it into _any_ of his accounts of the Champion, official or otherwise. He'd told her things. He'd seen her every day, planned his life around her and expected her to do the same for him; no wonder she'd never been able to lay those feelings to rest.

Of course, there was always the possibility that she hadn't wanted to—Hawke was stupidly, mind-blowingly stubborn, and it did amazing things to Varric's ego, knowing that she'd been carrying a torch for so long. Well, neither one of them were exactly emotionally healthy, but they'd gotten there in the end.

Still, he'd feel a lot better if he could make it up to her. Spoiling her senseless seemed like a decent place to start.

-

The problem was that he wasn't sure where to go from there. Hawke's dog was off with her brother, so the obvious avenue was closed to him. She didn't need new armor; her set of knives was in good repair; and her staff, which was closer in appearance to a polearm than the rough-looking sticks a lot of mages carried, seemed to be doing whatever it was supposed to be doing. She liked spellbooks fine, but she didn't tend to accumulate crap, probably because so much of her life had been spent in poverty or preparing to run from the Chantry at any moment.

There was always glittery stuff—Hawke really was like a magpie—but unlike Rivaini, she didn't wear much jewelry herself. She was already well-fed and watered, and all the appropriate bribes had long ago been made to all the appropriate people for Hawke-related business like keeping an eye on her brother, or warning Varric if the Chantry started to take _too_ much interest in the Champion, or making sure that her flock was taken care of. That included Anders, to Varric's chagrin; he didn't know where the apostate was and paid handsomely _not_ to know, but Anders was free, at large, and apparently (according to the reports) in decent health.

He was stumped. Might as well talk to the Inquisitor—she spent enough time passing down Andraste's will from that fancy chair of hers, cluing him in on how a woman liked to be treated shouldn't be too hard. And even if she was Dalish, she was also an apostate, and presumably knew what apostates liked.

Although unlike Hawke, the Herald dressed in perfectly appropriate clothes, and unlike Merrill, she seemed firmly set against blood magic. To his mild disappointment, there wasn't much that was wild about her at all. He found her sitting by herself at her usual corner in Cabot's tavern, staring into space with her elbows propped on the table.

"Inquisitor," he said. "Where'd Curly run off to?"

"Commander Cullen? He's indisposed," she said. 

Varric deposited a pint in front of her. "That's code for 'he's got a headache from lyrium withdrawal,' right?" The Inquisitor raised her eyebrows, and Varric shrugged. "It's obvious when you think about it, although I knew the guy in Kirkwall, so maybe that makes it easier to spot. How's he doing?"

"Well enough, I presume," she said, a little stiffly, which meant she either didn't know or didn't want to talk about it or both. Her lips did relax a touch when she saw the pint he'd brought her, though.

"You know what that is?" Varric said, swinging into the low stool beside her.

"Beer?"

"That," he said, "is a thank-you round. It's a round you buy someone when they knock you on your ass with something you needed to hear."

She obviously didn't get it, but she lifted the glass to her mouth and took a sip anyway.

"I'm schtupping Hawke," Varric clarified. She did a perfect spit-take; beer went everywhere, including a nice spray down the front of his coat.

"I—" She coughed. "Pardon me."

"It's fine. Can't say I didn't see it coming. Listen, I need another favor—it's possible that I, ah…"

That was when the Seeker came over. Great. Just fantastic.

"Varric," she spit. "Inquisitor."

"Seeker," Varric said, and waited for her to leave. The expectant silence dragged out until Cassandra sat down beside the Inquisitor. No social graces, that one. The last thing he'd expected was for her to develop a friendship with the Inquisitor, but it seemed like they were always together, talking about interesting places they'd been or interesting books they'd read or interesting things they'd killed. That, or deciding the fate of the world. You know, as a hobby.

Screw it. Wasn't like word wouldn't get out eventually.

"I'd like to make it up to her," he said. "Spoil her a little."

"Make what up to whom?" the Seeker demanded. Cabot appeared, set a cup of tea at her elbow, and vanished again.

"Hawke," the Inquisitor said.

The Seeker snorted. "Of course it's Hawke. It's always Hawke with you, Varric."

"You know, the Inquisitor and I were trying to have a private conversation before you barged in," Varric said. 

"I'm sorry," the Seeker said, voice thick with sarcasm, "I had not realized that you had such important secrets to discuss. Maker forbid you even begin to mention the truth in my presence."

"Fine, stay," said Varric. "I didn't realize you were so interested in my love life, but in retrospect, it is a little obvious. My point, Herald, is that you're a woman and an apostate—got any ideas?"

"Trust me when I say that I'm not the person you want to ask," said the Inquisitor. 

"Humor me," he suggested.

"What is this farce?" Cassandra said. "Can you even spoil her anymore than you already do?"

"...Excuse me. Did you just offer unsolicited advice?"

"She has a point, Varric," the Inquisitor said. Her pint was still mostly untouched. "When was the last time Hawke paid for her own bar tab?"

He waved a hand. "That's different."

"Oh?" said the Seeker. "And I suppose the reason you joined the Inquisition was out of the goodness of your heart, and not because you wanted to watch us in case we changed our minds and decided to hunt Hawke down?"

"What," said Varric, "I can't do stuff out of the goodness of my heart?"

The Seeker scoffed. "Aren't you a writer? Use your words."

"Or buy her a new pair of boots," said the Inquisitor.

"Andraste's tits, do either of you have _any_ romance in your souls?" He shook his head. "Boots. I swear." Anyway, he'd already made sure Hawke had a sturdy pair of boots—nothing romantic about _that_.

He left the two of them there, both apparently content to drink beer and tea respectively in complete silence. Shit, and people thought _Kirkwall_ made you weird. Hawke was on the roof, where he'd figured he'd find her; she was sitting on the ledge with her legs hanging off the side, and she grinned at him when he sat down beside her. It was a fair day, not too windy—almost hot in the sunshine.

"Split a smoke?" she asked.

"I don't have my pipe."

She produced a blunt. "I may or may not have lifted one of these from Madame de Fer." She didn't smoke often, did Hawke, but every now and then the mood struck her and she would go rooting around for his own rarely-used, ah, 'herbal remedies.' "Although I must say she doesn't seem the type—all those fancy clothes she has, I'd be afraid of getting the smell on them."

"You'd be surprised how well she gets by in the field," Varric said. "The Inquisitor's guard will be tromping through ankle-deep mud in some Ferelden shithole and there's the First Enchanter, gliding along, not a speck of mud on her white robes and nary a complaint to be heard."

Hawke trapped the tip of the blunt between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it back a few seconds later, now smouldering. "Unlike you, I'm guessing," she said. "Tell the truth, Varric, how much time do you spend bitching about having to sleep on the ground?"

"About as much time as Fenris spends bitching about Tevinter, and possibly with far less reason," he admitted, and Hawke's clear laughter rang against the stone walls of Skyhold. He took the blunt from her hand and gave it a drag, grinning to himself at her amusement. It was so much like the thousand other instances of companionable bullshit they'd shared before that he almost missed it when she started to reach for him and then drew back. He'd never have pegged her as shy, especially considering how handsy she could be in private.

"Hey," he said, and lifted his arm. "C'mere."

Sitting down like this, their eyes were about level, even though his feet were even with her shins, and she fit nicely against his side, leaning her weight against him when he draped an arm around her shoulders. He passed her the blunt, and she took a drag.

This was a lull. He'd been through enough wartime—and that was what this was, make no mistake—that he'd learned to recognize and make the most of them. Sooner or later, one or the other of them would be called away; or, if they were really lucky, they'd get to march out together. Either way, though, he knew the quiet wouldn't last, and he was determined to enjoy what time he and Marian had together while they had it. Not that enjoyment was ever an issue—Hawke was twelve different kinds of trouble, and ten of them were the fun kind. The other two involved world-changing consequences that Varric had never expected to get caught up in, but even those made for a good story. 

He also figured that sooner or later, sooner if Corypheus was finally laid to rest, Hawke would be taking up the place waiting for her among the rebel mages. She may not have thought of herself as a revolutionary—in fact, he was pretty sure she would outright deny the term—but her time was coming; Kirkwall was only prologue.

Aw, fuck, now he was getting all heavy when Hawke was just starting to get to the fun stage of high. She had not only a magpie's taste but also a magpie's mind, and there was no telling what he'd get out of her when she got a little buzzed.

"Varric," she said.

"Yeah?"

She hooked her elbow over his shoulder and leaned in against his ear. "Did I ever tell you about the time I convinced Carver I could turn Bethany into a spider?"

"You're kidding me. Is that even possible?"

"To turn someone else into a spider?" Hawke took another drag and dropped ash on his shoulder. "Probably, with a lot of study. Not quite so possible when you're eleven and trying to learn how to not set the house on fire. We had lessons every day, you know, reading and writing in the mornings, and then most afternoons Father would teach magic to Bethany and me. Carver was always trying to come along, until Mother found a retired soldier in the village who agreed to teach him swordplay."

"Sounds about right," Varric said. "Junior always did seem a little jealous." He liked Carver just fine, the kid had grown into a decent man, but he could be a prig at the best of times.

"Well. I can't blame him for that, really, although at the time all I knew was that he got on my nerves. Anyway, one day Mother and Father had gone off somewhere and left me in charge, and I had Bethany go outside and gather some herbs for me. I lugged our biggest pot over to the fire and started tossing things in while I chanted to myself—"

"Your sister went along with all this?"

"Oh, she idolized me." Hawke was quiet a moment, probably to reflect on the little sister Varric had never met. "Temper like a dragon when you got her angry, though. Of course, you had to really work at it to get her angry. Carver's more like me, and at that age he was even worse. Always sticking his nose into something. He kept begging me to tell him what I was doing, and I kept ignoring him to ask Bethany how she felt about having eight legs or what she thought about spinning."

"What happened?"

"Right when Carver was about to go mad with curiosity, I turned around, dumped the entire pot of leaves over Bethany's head, and shouted, 'INTO A SPIDER!' She dropped to the ground and started scuttling around, Carver burst into tears, and Father walked through the door." She chuckled. "He turned right back around and walked out again. I found out years later it was because he was laughing to hard to lecture me."

"A ruffian from the start," Varric said, satisfied. 

"For all I know, Carver still thinks I can turn him into a spider," she said. "I'm glad he isn't here."

"He'll be fine, Champion."

"Oh, I'm not worried about _that,"_ she said. Liar, Varric thought affectionately. "No, it's more that I can't imagine what he would think of Cassandra. He'd probably fall hopelessly in love with her, she's exactly his type. It's a wonder he didn't follow Aveline around like a puppy."

"Maker, now there's an image. I can see it now. She'd probably get pissed off, clobber him, apologize, and then tell him he had it coming." Or at least that was how he'd write it up, provided he ever got the opportunity. 

Hawke sighed dramatically. "Poor Carver. Hypothetically scorned, and he isn't even here to defend himself." She stubbed the blunt out with her free hand and tucked it away in a pocket. Even more in daylight than by the fireside, Varric was struck by how fair she looked; she was pale enough that her skin was translucent in the right lighting.

He cleared his throat. "There was something I wanted to talk to you about, actually, and since we're out here…"

"I believe that's my cue to exit," she said. "Can it wait until later? I have to go see a man about a dog, is how I believe the saying goes." She leaned in like she was going to kiss his cheek and at the last minute ducked away like she was looking for something.

"Yeah," Varric said. "Sure." He watched as she slipped away, light-footed and quick; when she reached the door she muttered something—he couldn't tell if she was talking to him or to herself—and vanished inside.

Use his words. Right. Easier said than done.

-

By that point he was convinced that _something_ was going on in Hawke's head that she wasn't sharing with him. He prayed she wasn't having doubts, although given her prior behavior, he couldn't imagine doubt was the problem. 

No, there was only one way out of this situation. It required a steady hand and deep knowledge of Hawke's preferences and personality; fortunately, he was a man who possessed both qualifications.

He was going to have to get Hawke drunk.

Oh, it _sounded_ easy, but Hawke's tolerance was pretty high. The trick was getting her right to that soft spot between tipsy and completely sloshed when, provided she was in the right company, she went all soft-eyed and confessional. Fortunately, it was a trick at which Varric was well-practiced. He didn't even have to work at it; she followed him to the tavern, let him set a pint of beer and a deck of cards in front of her, and then proceeded to take everyone around her for everything they had. There were hands when even Varric couldn't tell if she was cheating or not; Ruffles was the only one who put up a real fight, although Varric wasn't playing all that hard.

When the game wound down, he lined a couple of shot glasses of Marcher whiskey up between them and looked at her with a challenge in his eye.

"Really, Varric?" she said. She was shuffling the deck idly, the cards rippling through her practiced hands.

He shrugged. "If you aren't up to it…"

She smirked. "Oh, _I'm_ up to it. I'm only thinking of your health, you know—I've heard past a certain age, it doesn't behoove a man to drink too much."

"You know I'm only a few—"

"Decades?"

"—years older than you are, right?"

"Sorry, what was that? You know how hard it is to understand the elderly when they mumble." She winked at him, took up the first shot, and threw it back without breaking eye contact. Varric was…

 _Massively_ turned-on. Shit, that was unfair.

Still, it only took a little more egging before Hawke downed another two shots and reached the stage where she started trying to climb onto the table and sing bawdy songs. Varric managed to get her down and out the door without too much trouble; since she'd figured out he was sturdy enough to take her weight, she'd taken to draping herself over his shoulders in ways that were increasingly feline. By the time they hit the keep proper, he was just about carrying her, although he decided against flat-out picking her up—that ran the risk of Hawke getting affronted and kicking him in the face or something.

He had to prop her up against the wall while he worked the door open; she was singing to herself, some tune he hadn't heard about a strapping young harlot who retired to the mountains because she wasn't given the respect she was due. She must've picked that one up in the Anderfels—Varric hadn't heard it before.

"In you go," he said, and hoisted her by the waist over the threshold. She laughed in her remarkably clear voice and shifted to a song about three Orlesians and a sword-hilt that contained suggestions for positions Varric didn't think were physically possible, although he was certainly willing to put in the research.

He got her to one of the armchairs in front of the fire and went to hang up his duster; when he turned around, Hawke was sprawled on the thick rug, her legs in the air as she tugged at her boots.

 _"My brother sells kisses to sailors,"_ she warbled, _"and Maker, how money rolls in!"_

"Better not let Junior hear you singing that one," said Varric, and went to help her with her laces. Her boots were nice boots. Very comfortable, very expensive. It was possibly he was bordering on tipsy himself, since he had to force his fingers to cooperate when it came to the knots.

"Excellent," Hawke said happily when the boots were off. She went to work on her trousers next. Normally Varric was all in favor of Hawke removing clothing—aw, who was he shitting, he was always in favor of it—but right now it was in his best interest for everyone to remain fully covered.

"Why don't you leave those on?" he suggested.

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "You haven't been possessed, have you?" she said.

"No. No, definitely not possessed. I, ah...I thought maybe we could have that talk now."

Hawke squirmed around on the rug, worked a hand behind her back, and pulled out a small knife that must have been tucked in her waistband. She flung it overhand across the room and didn't appear concerned when it landed on the floor with a clatter.

"Mm," she said. "No. I don't think that sounds like a good idea. Why don't we both take off our trousers and see where the evening leads?"

Varric covered his face with his hands. Maker, this was hard. _Difficult_. It was going to be...fuck.

He retreated, located a bottle of wine, and took a seat beside Hawke on the rug. "Look," he said, once he'd filled a glass for himself, "We're talking about this one way or another, and I figured it would be easier on both of us if you weren't sober."

"Wouldn't you rather screw me?" Hawke said. Her hands were straying to her waistband again. She was staring at him upside down, her hair ruffled from all the lolling around on the floor; it should have made her look absurd, but in reality she just looked...what was the word…edible.

"Yes. No!" said Varric. _"No."_

"You're sure?"

"Hawke, I promise that someday, after an actual two-way conversation, we will reach a point where I might be willing to screw you when you're drunk and I'm sober, but until then, please leave your pants on."

"Ugh," Hawke said, and wrinkled her nose. "This is no fun. I'm going back to the bar."

"Nope," said Varric. He planted a hand in the middle of her chest. It wouldn't keep her from going anywhere if she really wanted to leave, but he figured at this point all she needed was a bit of gentle encouragement.

"I can tell you aren't going to let this go." Hawke sighed loudly and with such overt resignation that Varric had to crack a smile. "All right, let's hear it."

It occurred to Varric that now that he'd reached the pivotal moment, he didn't actually have a plan for what to say. Oh well, he could probably just make it up as he went along.

"Why do you start to reach for me and then stop yourself?" he blurted out.

...Or not.

Hawke's eyes widened. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. It was only _almost_ entirely unconvincing. This was where the liquor was paying off.

"Yeah, Marian, I think you do," Varric said. He wished he could express to her how little he wanted to have this conversation, too, but he wanted her to go on like she was even less. "You do it all the time, even in bed. Shit, you probably do it even more often, and I just haven't noticed."

"It seems more likely that you're making this up. Figment of your imagination?" She was starting to look a little wild. "Been reading too many books again?"

"Nice try." Varric swallowed a mouthful of wine. "It's almost like you're trying to avoid smothering me, but I don't have the first idea what it means—"

Wait a second. He stopped, reviewed what he'd just said, jumped back to the sole conversation they'd already had about the shift in their relationship, remembered Hawke saying, _I won't let it matter._

"Varric," Hawke said, "is this about the length of my secret infatuation?"

"Maybe," he said.

"You can't blame yourself," she said. "It was my choice not to tell you, you know, I don't see why it bothers you."

"You don't see why it—" His laughter was verging on hysterical. "Hawke, are you serious?"

"Come off it," she snapped. "Nobody's going to think less of you. Stop trying to make this mean to you what it means to me."

He'd nailed it, all right; she was trying to avoid driving him off. It occurred to him that a couple of half-sentences that were more foreplay than anything else did not a partnership make. From the outside, her misunderstanding was laughable. One of the most attractive things about Hawke was how responsive she was to him, him _specifically_ , how her moods shifted with his, how she could anticipate the next twist in his story or the next place he'd put a bolt in a fight, how she knew he was there and reached for him without thinking, how she was driven to distraction by the sound of his voice, how he could have her shouting his name with nothing more than his hands—and now he found out she was _holding herself back?_

In retrospect, he shouldn't have assumed that she would make the leap from Varric telling her he didn't have a problem with her feelings to realizing he meant he was ass-over-face for her. His own damn fault. Hers, too, for being so fucking stubborn.

"Stay here," Varric said, and then he rolled to his feet and went to retrieve a particular box. He had to dig for it; there'd been a time in his life when he'd always known exactly where the box was, but that time was long past. He finally found it on top of a crate containing advance copies of his latest book. When he took it back over to Hawke and set it in front of her, he could tell by her face she knew exactly what was in the box.

"Here," he said. "Start reading. Look at whatever you want, I don't give a damn, but you might want to start with this one." He pulled out an exceedingly worn letter from 9:31 and set it on top. _Dear Bianca_ , that specific letter started, _I met the craziest apostate today._

She was staring at him in shock; Varric scowled back until her gaze flicked down to the box, and then he stomped towards the door. Actually, on second thought—he took the pitcher of water from his desk and set it down beside her so forcefully water splashed over the sides before leaving again. Served her right.

-

His first inclination was the same as Hawke's, but he figured that he'd need a clear head for whatever was going to follow—provided Hawke didn't run away—and that meant the bar was out. He ended up down in the training yard, which was empty and dark except for a couple of lanterns lit with some kind of magical fire. Hawke would probably recognize it, though—she'd probably be able to improve on it. She was a tinkerer of the first degree.

Some careless greenie had left a recurve bow and a quiver of arrows sitting out on a hay bale beside the practice targets. Varric picked the bow up with the intention of putting it away in the armory, but it felt good in his hands. It'd been a long time since he'd held one of the things—he'd always been more of a crossbow man, and Bianca had rendered the need for anything else obsolete, but…

It took him a little work to remember the trick to stringing a bow; when he had it, he nocked an arrow and drew it back experimentally. The draw weight couldn't have been more than forty pounds. Maybe he should write a book about an archer—archery was big right now, and he'd been thinking that it was time to take a break from crime serials. 

He sighted down the length of the arrow, took in the feeling of the breeze against the back of his hand, and let the thing fly. Bullseye. Hell, of course it was, he'd made more difficult shots in the middle of the night and upside down while bleeding out from a head wound.

Someone stirred the grass behind him. Varric ignored whoever it was and lined up another shot. Under duress, he might admit that he needed an outlet to work off the frustration.

"You continue to surprise me, dwarf," the someone said. Cassandra. Great.

"Well," he drawled, "that is one of my primary goals in life. Every morning I wake up and ask myself, 'How can I shock the Seeker today?'"

"If you're going to be rude, I will go," she said, which was so shocking Varric let the bow relax to his side.

"What in Andraste's name are you—no, you know what, forget it."

"Forget what?"

"Here," Varric said, and shoved the bow at her. "You know how to use one of those things?"

"Of course I do!" she snapped. "Although...it has been a while."

"You'll get the hang of it."

"Why would I need a bow?" He had to give it to her, the Seeker was the most literal-minded person he'd ever met.

"It's good for working out frustration," he advised. "I figured you could use it."

"Was that why you were out here? To work out your frustrations?"

"Nope," he said, and he winked at her. "I have better avenues for that, if you know what I mean."

She clearly didn't, at least not at first; he was a dozen strides away when it hit her, and she let out a disgusted cry. Varric grinned to himself. On the bright side, he hadn't been stabbed today, Hawke was still alive, and—provided they fumbled their way to an understanding—there was even a chance he'd get laid tonight. Life could be a lot worse. Trust the Seeker to offer a little perspective.

When he got back to his room, Hawke was sitting upright on the rug with a stack of letters beside her; the box was almost empty. One of her hands was curled idly over the lip of the pitcher, and as he watched, frost spread out from her fingers.

She looked up, her face astonished. "Varric," she said accusingly, "these are all about _me."_

Varric kicked the door shut behind him. "Yeah," he said, "well, I figured you had to be wondering why I was going through those that first night." He shrugged. "Now you know."

"You didn't have to show me—"

"See, that's where you're wrong, Hawke. I did." He settled down across from her and winced, sore from drawing a bow for the first time in years. "I didn't know any other way to knock the idea out of your head that this is some grand one-sided favor I'm doing for you. You know what 'all in' means? It means you and me against everyone else."

Hawke swallowed. "When you're the emotionally acute one in a relationship," she said, voice thick even though she was aiming for teasing, "we really are screwed." 

There were a hundred things he could say to that; she was so brave she scared him, and she was also a complete screwball who probably would have been content to spend the rest of their lives using sex to distract him from their issues. What he actually said was, "Ha ha. Blame the dwarf, I see how it is."

"In case you hadn't heard," said Hawke, _"I'm_ the most beautiful, most ferocious, and most quick-witted hero to ever walk the land. This certainly can't be my fault."

"Beautiful and ferocious? You must be talking about some other champion." He took her face between his hands and leaned his forehead against hers; her eyes were bright.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," said Hawke.

"We'll muddle through somehow, you know that?"

"You haven't run away screaming yet," said Hawke. "I've chosen to take that as a good sign."

"Just...no more holding yourself back, all right? You, ah. Marian, you _matter._ And that muffling-yourself-in-bed no-touching crap, I don't like it." Varric smirked. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm about as likely to run away screaming from you as you are from me."

She grinned back. "As confessions of mutual devotion go, that isn't the most romantic. I expected better from a wordsmith like yourself."

"What, are you saying you want me to put my mouth to better use?"

Hawke pulled back, looked around, and transferred the glass of wine he'd started hours ago from the floor to his hand. "Here," she said, "drink up."

"Why do I—?"

"I wouldn't want you to have any compunctions about one of us being sober that prevent you from fucking me into the ground," she said. "I'm sorry, was that too forward?"

Very carefully, Varric reached out and set the glass of wine down on the stone hearth, and then he went for Hawke. She flailed as he tumbled her to her back; it took him a second to realize she was laughing, and that her pealing laughter came only from joy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Rising Action](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220736) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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